Summoning Call
by That-Fresh-Rain-Smell
Summary: Post-war, alternative storyline after OoTP, Super!Harry, utterly fluffy smut. May have plot eventually. Harry Potter has twice the power Voldemort or Albus had ever possessed. When a disgruntled Potions Master seeks the help of an accomplished Hermione to try to cure Lycanthropy, a curious Harry can't help but interject himself into the proceedings.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: The Year of Reconstruction

* * *

"Come, Severus, we are going out." Minerva swept into his study and began bustling around, collecting books and stacking them neatly to be re-shelved, before he had even registered her presence. _So much for war instincts,_ he thought grimly to himself. _Then again, can_ anyone _anticipate this woman?_

"I am not going anywhere, and certainly not with you," he said with enough sharpness to drive home his resolve.

"Certainly you are. It has been a year, Severus, and there is much more to life than all of this fruitless brooding. I really must insist." She inspected a scrap of parchment before setting it aside, in a growing pile of similarly useless odds and ends.

"Insist as you like, but I have a research project that cannot wait." He turned a page in his book after glancing through the door at the cauldron bubbling sedately in the next room.

"That project?" With a swish of her wand, Minerva had cast a stasis spell, "There, it's all taken care of. I'm sure it will wait for your return."

"Damn you, woman!" Snape jumped to his feet and rushed to the next room, examining his project and her spell.

"Don't bend yourself out of shape, Severus, I included intermittent stirring charms in the working," she called from the next room, the sound of books thumping back onto shelves punctuating her words.

"You know it doesn't have as good of an effect as real stirring." He muttered, entirely too aware that he sounded rather sulky.

"And _you_ know that your project is as much an exercise in futility as all of this hiding you're doing, my dear man. There are only so many ways a potion can be improved, Severus." As the last book flew into its place on the shelf, she dropped her wand hand and turned to regard him as he stood, uncharacteristically without a retort.

"Nevertheless, it still feels too soon to dance upon the blood-soaked Earth, Minerva." He muttered quietly. If she had not been so good a friend or so fierce a comrade in the war, he may not have spoken at all, but as it was it took a great deal of effort to say. She moved towards him before speaking.

"Severus." She stopped, reaching out a hand to grip his bicep, now standing straight in front of him and looking into his eyes with a small, sorrowful smile. "Sometimes, we don't know we _can_ dance, until we hear the right song." _And you'll never hear any songs, staying in your dungeons,_ she did not have to say.

He knew it, he had become increasingly disturbed by his own behavior over the past year. After so long fighting a grueling war on two fronts, he had often fantasized of what he would do when it was all over. Travel and indulgence had been chief on his list; a steady stream of his salary had been put away for the days of leisure he dreamed of after the war, providing he survived at all. He now had more than enough to travel the world in style twice over, and yet…

As it was, it had been a year exactly since the Dark Lord's demise—tonight was the anniversary, no doubt why Minerva was pestering him—and he had barely left Hogwarts in all that time. Initially, he had been recovering from grievous wounds, but over time he had stayed more and more in the shadows, withdrawing from everyone. He no longer taught potions (and hadn't, thankfully, for several years), but retained his quarters at Hogwarts by the grace of Albus' foresight and concern. Although he had inherited his mother's family estates when an estranged cousin—the last of the line—had died in battle, he had found no motivation to tour his holdings or look over the scrolls detailing his new wealth.

Even receiving the Order of Merlin, First Class and the invitation to the award ceremony had not moved him, nor made him feel as he had expected. Instead of pride, or warmth, or even grim satisfaction, he had felt nothing. Rather—he had felt like a 7th-year receiving a muggle primary school sticker on an essay; underwhelmed, underappreciated, and over-worked. The Order of Merlin had been placed gracelessly on the rather crowded mantle in his sitting room between a peculiar vase and a portraiture of his mother, turned face down. It had been gathering dust ever since, and he had not once remembered to look at it.

He had resolved to begin his travel arrangements that very spring, but—at least initially—the reconstruction of Hogwarts and rebuilding after the war had taken priority. There had been medi-potions that needed expert brewing in outrageous quantity, ward growth and repair, children to comfort or provoke into maturing, and most importantly, endless rounds of testimony that would leave him a free man. It was only in the past few months that there had _truly_ been nothing to do, and even more recently had he realized that he was stalling—and hiding. Disgusted with himself, he broke free of Minverva's hand and turned away.

"I suppose you're going to the Three Broomsticks, along with the rest of the faculty," he said with enough sarcasm to make it clear that it was not at all his idea of 'fun', although what _did_ consist of fun for Severus was a mystery even to Minerva. Knowing him, it was most likely something the rest of the wizarding world considered absurdly dull; she did however admire his ability to find even the dullest subject endlessly fascinating. She cleared her throat.

"Actually, a few of us are getting together at a place in Edinburgh for dinner. Afterwards, some of us will probably continue to a pub. I will be content if you will stay at least through dinner, although of course, you would be welcome to linger as well." She tried to hide the faint smirk, and failed, but he did not fault her for it.

"Very well, Minerva," he huffed, and went to change.

"That was, perhaps surprisingly, easier than I had expected," Minerva addressed to the room, which made no reply.

"You failed to mention that _Black_ would be in attendance," Severus growled stiffly to Minerva, who waved her hand at him as the entered the back patio of the surprisingly beautiful restaurant. The interior had high ceilings, dark wood paneling and low, tasteful lighting, and the French doors opened onto a large patio overlooking the river. In the mild autumn evening, the river and watercress could be scented from the patio, providing a fresh, pleasing fragrance.

"You two worked well enough together during the war, if you excuse all the bickering. Just be certain to sit far enough away from him; no one here wants to be caught in between the two of you when you start squabbling."

"I _do not_ squabble, that cur is—"

"Severus!" A voice called—was that Molly Weasley? Oh dear Merlin, what had he gotten himself into?

"Severus, it _is_ you, how wonderful it is to see you out and about. Are you planning on joining the younger ones at the pub later on, then? I know Charlie and Bill would appreciate having someone steady like you along."

Severus could not decide whether to be insulted to be lumped into the same category of people he thought of as children, or flattered that she felt he would be welcome among them. As he had never had a taste for flattery, he settled on the former. "I hardly doubt I could be of any use whatsoever. I am far too old to be getting sloshed on a Monday at the local pub."

"Nonsense, Severus, you're only thirty-nine. You could be my little brother!" He felt his cheeks warm slightly, absurdly embarrassed by the idea, and bowed his head.

"Very true, Molly. However, I still taught most of your sons when they were children, one not even a few years ago." He replied. Molly made a dismissive gesture.

"Nonsense, Severus. You know how long we live. Compared to Albus, we are all terribly young, still! Do think about joining them, it won't be _all_ young men; Remus, Tonks, and Minerva were all planning to attend, I believe."

He made a gesture of concession and a promise to think on it before she would let him take his seat. He chose a spot next to the rail dividing the patio from the river, content to drink his wine and watch as the others mingled, often standing and moving about to speak to one-another. Harry Potter was insulated as ever by his two best friends, and Lupin and Black sat to Granger's right, speaking intently to one another. It was nearly a reunion of the entire Order of the Phoenix, in fact. Those missing were either known for being reclusive, or dead.

He was surprised that no one had accosted their party yet, accustomed as he was to the fame of Harry Potter and those associated with him (which, after the trails, included himself—a fact he was decidedly uncomfortable with). Looking more closely, he saw a glint, then a shimmer, in the air between their rancorous group and the rest of the diners on the patio.

 _Someone planned this dinner and tailored it to be the most comfortable for all of us—us…veterans,_ he thought, almost pleased by the idea. It would indeed be terrible manners if he were to leave too soon. Expecting to feel bitter obligation or contempt at the thought, he was surprised to only find himself mildly amused.

These changes in his mood and disposition had left him feeling so wrong-footed and unlike himself that, in part, they had caused his withdrawal from society over the past several months. He knew intellectually that he was struggling with post-war effects (though he refused to call anything in relation to his life anything so absurd as 'traumatic'), but it was not something that could be resolved through intellectual rigor; this he instinctually understood.

He recognized that his sense of disquiet stemmed from a loss of purpose, and a mutation of self; now that he was no longer walking a narrow path between death and espionage, he had lost hold of who he was. Having been required to be a very specific person for so long, he had a hard time understanding who he was when unburdened by necessities of war. Even when the changes in his disposition were not something the outside world generally viewed as negative—like an increase in tolerance—he still found it disquieting to find himself a changed man, and not be able to say from whence the change came.

"What are you thinking about?" A voice asked him, and he turned to his right, startled, to realize Harry Potter had at some point come to sit next to him.

"If I was ever in the mood to share my thoughts with you, Potter, I am certain you would not be able to comprehend them. Spare us both the trouble, and go back to your friends." The insults came to him easily, like water, and he was gratified that this, at least, was familiar ground.

"What if I'd like to trouble myself?" Potter asked, a small smile on his face as he sipped his firewhiskey. This was _not_ familiar ground, and Severus' pleasure in the familiar was abruptly cut by that smile. His stomach went hard and knotted like oak.

"I am hardly concerned with where you put your miniscule efforts, Potter, as long as it is not directed at _me_." That ought to get him to leave.

"I don't know," Potter had the gall to give him a measuring look, holding his eyes a beat too long before looking away across the river, "I've always found you rather interesting." At this, the young man managed to ruin his cool demeanor with a blush and a glance back at Severus to see how he was received. Severus smirked rather cruelly, feeling intrigued despite himself. Looking down at the table, he saw that the server had kept him in wine without him noticing, and he had already had several glasses more than he ought.

"Really, Potter? Interested in your old potions professor?" He had aimed for acerbic mockery, but somehow his voice conveyed his genuine amusement. Certainly he wanted to embarrass the boy and make him squirm a little, but really the idea was too absurd, too comical, to really be good fodder for insults.

"So what if I am?" Potter sounded almost belligerent, almost angry. Severus glanced at him again, this time taking the time to appreciate the young man's growth. Now eighteen, Potter was—there was truly only one word for it—virile. He radiated energy, from his tan lines to the edges of his perpetually messy hair. _I should feel tired just looking at him_ , he joked to himself, only to once again find that the opposite was true—he felt strangely electrified, as though on the precipice of a cliff or standing in front of a large wave. Potter was certainly attractive, that was not in question.

"I'm in no mood to deal with your pranks, boy," he snapped—or tried to, but the wine was making him redolent, and it just came out as a drawl. Strangely, Potter took a chill at the same moment, goose bumps rippling up his arms in the dim light.

"It's not a prank, Snape, but I see why you might think as much." Potter responded ruefully. Finally, seeing that the young Weasley boy, Ronald, was shooting him odd looks, he got up hastily. Severus declined to stand, looking up at the young man with a strange sense of unflappability, of calm. "I hope you'll come to the pub with us later," Potter said, absurdly, before making his way back to his friends.

Black sent Severus a suspicious glare as the young man returned to his seat, but Severus once again felt no offence, injured pride, or hate as he would expect. The idea that Severus would want to harm Potter after all he had done to ensure his success and continued existence was absurd. Thus, Blacks glare prompted only the barely-noticeable irritation of a nearby irrational mind and childhood nemesis; unpleasant, but not overly concerning.

Dinner was surprisingly excellent, and Severus made note of the establishment for himself so he could at some point in the future return. By the time the groups were splitting up in front of the restaurant—one towards home, the other, the pub—he was pleasantly drunk and feeling a strange sense of recklessness. Who cared, really, who he was after the war. Perhaps he _could_ be the type of bloke who got drunk at the pub with his mates, although the assembled group could not properly be called 'mates'.

It took very little urging from the elder Weasleys and the polite invitations of Remus and Tonks to go along to the pub, and Black's muttered complaints merely convinced him to go all the more—anything that irritated Black was worthwhile, after all. He did however decline to order more than a pint, which he nursed slowly as the rest of the group drank at a steady pace. It was greatly amusing to watch the increased inebriation of the collective group, particularly when it came to Potter, who it turned out was an incredibly sympathetic drunk.

"Oh Harry, we love you too!" Granger was saying; the trio were involved in some sort of group hug that seemed to not have ended for a solid half hour, so far. Severus would have been disgusted by the display if he hadn't been keenly aware of all the three had sacrificed, in the war. Despite age or appearances, the war had aged and damaged all three of them in different ways, and although Severus would kill himself before admitting it, he knew somewhere how worthy, how deserving they all were of each other's friendship. Despite common assumption, Severus knew very well how important such friendships were, and he felt a familiar but unwelcome pang at the reminder of Albus.

However, the pain did not last long, and Potters drunkenness was amusing. The young man was always portrayed in the paper and public as the quintessentially stoic hero, and it was satisfying to know that he, Severus Snape, as always knew the truth of the matter.

His mostly pleasant revere was shattered when a hand grabbed him rough and hard by the shoulder. Unthinking, he turned, reaching for a wand in unfamiliar clothing. His enemy sneered at him, and for a dizzying moment he wasn't sure whether he faced a bloodied Greyback on the field of battle or a drunken stranger in a bar. He reacted violently, more violently than he ought, shaken and enraged.

Suddenly there was a body between himself and the offender, and when the other man had been pushed off, staggering down the bar (a bit bloodied, but that's what happens when you assault Severus Snape, anyway), the young man turned to Severus with an expression of flushed concern. Severus could only stare at Potter, breathing raggedly. For a moment, their eyes locked, and a memory passed between them.

 _They stood in tatters on the mud-churned field, panting and staring at each other, wands held in nerveless fingers. Harry took a step towards him, tripping on a body—_ The Body _—on the ground between them. Snape caught him up automatically, and the younger man took a deliberate step forward, placing a foot squarely on the back of the Dark Lord—or, what was once the Dark Lord._

He banished the memory, deeply unsettled, and realized they were still stating at each other as if entranced, and Potter was too close to him, improperly so. A blush spread over the young man's cheeks and Severus looked away, gripping his wand through his robes more tightly. He turned without a word, navigating deftly towards the door.

"Be well," he almost thought he heard the young man mutter, before he was out of earshot and out of the building, breathing in the chill, calming quiet of the night. This was not, he decided, an experience he wanted to repeat.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: The Years of Unexpected Grace

* * *

"Whatever are you doing, Severus?" Minvera asked with some surprise when she stepped into his study to find the man packing.

"Going away," he offered brusquely, ignoring her in favor of eyeing a rather large book speculatively before setting it aside.

"Clearly," the woman said with some asperity, "but _where_ , and how long should we expect your absence?" She quashed the sudden pain at losing her prickly friend in favor of the hope she felt, that he would flourish away from the castle.

Severus repressed the initial urge to snap that it wasn't anyone's business. He was well aware that even he wasn't certain of anything—where, when, how long…and he readily admitted there was a sort of manic edge, a dangerous feeling, to his urge to leave. The cautious and responsible part of his brain urged him to stay until he at least had a plan, but there was nothing more disgusting to him at this moment than the life he had lived for two long, grueling decades.

It didn't help that—something—had passed between himself and the Boy Who Lived the previous night. Upon waking, he had realized that if it had been anyone else in the world, he would have kissed the flushed and rumpled young man without a second thought. Regardless of what Molly might say about wizarding ages, it was absolutely unacceptable to Severus to consider Harry Potter and sexual interest in the same breath. Clearly, he needed to get out more.

"I don't know, Minerva," he said with an unusual lack of sarcasm or inflection. "I am sorry to leave so abruptly, and I will write you. I simply cannot stand this place another minute." The honesty in his voice seemed to startle her for a moment, after which she smiled at him indulgently. He, on the other hand, had turned back to his packing as though deeply unsettled by his own forthrightness.

"Of course, Severus. Please do write, and I hope you find all the happiness you very much deserve, wherever you end up. I do hope to see you, on occasion, of course." She responded as he straightened, shrinking his trunk and pocketing it.

"I will visit, I am sure, if only to avoid your hounding me," he replied, ignoring the bit about deserving happiness. Whether or not happiness was deserved, he would leave for latter judgment. For now, he intended to take what he could of it.

"Goodbye, Severus," Minerva said a trifle sadly, pulling his stiff and formal figure into a tight hug. While he did not return it, he also did not resist, and that was all she expected.

"Goodbye, Minerva," he said gravely. Extracting himself from the one-sided hug, he gave her a small smile and disapperated, leaving a satisfyingly shocked woman in his wake. After all, not just anyone could apparate from inside Hogwarts.

* * *

The next two years saw Severus Snape the happiest he had ever been, though on anyone else it would have merely been called contentment. The lines around his eyes eased and his skin, if not tanned, was a healthier shade of white as opposed to a dungeon-induced pallor. He lived almost exclusively off of his savings, taking potions commissions only when they were significantly challenging—or expensive—enough to be worth his while.

He traveled, and the anonymity he found in the crowds of other wizarding societies eased something in him. While still a very restrained, cynical, and sarcastic man, he found his mind more ready to bend towards humor than bitterness as time wore on, free of the burdens he had left behind.

After a year spent in leisure, Severus finally felt ready to check in on things back home. While he had kept a correspondence with Minerva, it had never touched deeply upon current events. They had discussed Severus's travels, and Minerva's work as Headmistress, but rarely had their discussion turned to what went on in Wizarding Britain as a whole. Therefore, he was both shocked and deeply amused when he bulk-ordered monthly editions of both the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler (while both papers were very loose with facts in opposite ways, a combination of both extremes were useful to determine the truth).

The first few months after he had left were the usual drivel—the incompetent Ministry was still attempting to round up Death Eaters, some type of invisible magical creature was on the loose again—but the most recent months editions held a shock.

 **The Boy Who Lived—The next Dark Lord?**

Severus snorted at that; the boy was incapable of the sort of masterful manipulations needed to organize and rule even a small subset of the population, and he had never been studious. Who in their right mind would believe such drivel? Intrigued despite himself, he read on, and found himself increasingly disturbed.

 _While the Ministry tracked down the remaining followers of You-Know-Who, Harry Potter had other plans. Using his newfound Inheritance, he was able to summon the remaining followers to his side—and who knows what he will do next?_

Useless drivel, completely devoid of facts! Severus harrumphed, and picked up the Quibbler from the same month.

 **Harry Potter Once Again Saves the Wizarding World!**

 _All by himself?_ Severus thought sarcastically, but this rendition of events at least had more useful information.

 _Harry Potter has spoken with this author in a direct interview in order to dispel misinformation on the subject of the remaining Death Eaters. From what he is able to figure out, his connection to Voldemort led him to be able to summon the remaining Death Eaters to him, and remand them unto the tender mercies of the Ministry. As of now, the last known followers of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named have been imprisoned at the newly renovated Azkaban. Harry Potter has also admitted to this author that he performed an obliviate charm on all the Death Eaters he summoned, after the ministry had received full confessions under veritaserum. When questioned, he said that he hoped the memory wipe would give the Death Eaters a 'clean slate', if not with society, then at least with themselves._

Utter rubbish! There was only one way to know for sure what had really happened. He had to talk to Minerva, and not over post. If Harry bloody Potter could summon him with a thought, by Merlin he had the right to know! He made his way to the hearth and firecalled her without preamble. It was nearly eleven in the evening, so he took a rarely-used liberty and called directly into her private sitting room.

"Minerva!" He snapped, spotting her in repose on the settee.

"Severus?" she asked with concern, setting her book aside. "Whatever is the matter?"

"What is this nonsense about Potter?" He demanded, waving the paper through the flames too quickly for her to see it properly.

"I suppose you mean the Death Eater summoning," she said with a sigh, seeming to have expected this discussion.

"What in the blazes is this about? Don't tell me _Potter_ can actually summon Death Eaters to him the way the Dark Lord once did—that is utter rubbish and you know it!"

Minerva fixed him with a steady look. "Why don't you come all the way through and I'll order in some tea; this isn't exactly a conversation to be had without a proper sit down."

Grumbling, Severus complied. Once he was seated with his tea fixed to his satisfaction, Minerva began to speak.

"I am only going to tell you this story once, Severus, so will you _please_ keep the commentary to yourself until I have finished? I doubt Mr. Potter would like anyone telling the truth of the matter beyond the interview he gave for the Quibbler, but considering your unique circumstances and relationship to Harry I think you have a right to know the full of it."

" _Relationship—_ " Severus began, but Minerva spoke over him.

"After you left, Harry discovered his power had grown exponentially. While he was certainly a powerful wizard before, his power once again seemed to double on his twentieth birthday."

" _Double_?" Severus choked, going white. Potter had been more powerful than the Dark Lord, by the end of the war, rivaling Albus for strength. The idea of such a powerful wizard suddenly having exponentially increased powers turned his stomach to knots, despite the paragon of virtue that Potter seemed to be.

"You can see why he doesn't wish to discuss it," Minerva said ruefully. "He has been hounded left and right by those who'd like to use him, worship him, or condemn him. He's kept a low profile, but the Death Eater summoning caused quite a stir."

"Am I to believe that Potter was truly able to summon the Death Eaters to him?" Severus asked, still trying to wrap his brain around the amount of power she had said Potter possessed. If it had been anyone other than Minerva, he would have doubted it, but as it was, he was hard pressed to imagine it.

"Yes, Severus," she said gently. "Mr. Potter and Miss. Granger believe that his scar gave him the unique ability. While Voldemort is dead, Harry retains his ability to speak Parsletongue, among other things. He says he can feel what he calls an echo of Voldemort through his scar. It's very clear to him, he says, that the man is dead, but the power signature remains. Using that, he was able to summon the Death Eaters, and obliviate them collectively, after their confessions at the Ministry."

"He cannot possibly be as powerful as you say, for I was not summoned even though I was not too far out of Voldemort's previous summoning range at the time." He said, taking a steadying breath. Minerva looked at him with fond asperity.

"Severus, Harry doesn't consider you a Death Eater." She said gently.

"I highly doubt his considerations would be relevant. He's using the magical signature of the Dark Lord to summon the other fragments of that signature—mainly, the dark mark. Potter's personal beliefs about my affiliations would hardly come into play." He retorted with some amount of asperity himself.

"Perhaps you should ask him, then," she suggested, with a look that he couldn't quite decipher.

"If he has dominion over Voldemort's magical signature, including the fragment currently imbedded in my arm, I do not want to be anywhere _near_ Potter! Just thinking of what he could do with such power is revolting." More like terrifying, but he wasn't about to admit that, even to Minerva.

"You know Harry would never use that power over you." Minerva chided gently.

"I do not plan to give him the temptation. Thank you for the tea, Minerva, it was quite enlightening." With that, he left as abruptly as he had come, and she was left to shake her head after him before returning to her book.

* * *

Severus Snape's recently found peace of mind had been shattered by the revelations about the remaining Death Eaters, and there was no way to avoid the fact any longer. He stared across the Mediterranean sea with vacant eyes, not seeming to even notice the dazzling view of the harbor at sunset, or the Grecian homes peppering the bay to his left. As he stared, his hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically around one another in his lap. If his grandparents had seen such a thing, he would surely have been smacked for the nervous tick, but as it was there were no witnesses, and the man himself hadn't noticed.

Harry Potter—apparently double the power of the two most powerful men alive, and able to summon him with a thought.

Severus had left Minerva's sitting room and immediately packed his cottage in France, traveling immediately further south and out of what he measured as double the range of the Dark Lords summoning power. Although apparently out of range, he had been unable to focus since their conversation. Unanswered questions still hounded him; he had gone back, again and again, to every moment he had interacted with Potter, the Dark Lord, or Albus.

He had spent weeks wracking his brain for the answers, looking first for any sign of Potter's apparent power, then in an attempt to understand the boy's character. Was it possible he _would_ become the next power-thirsty megalomaniac? Despite what Snape had always said, it had never seemed that Potter cared much for fame, power, or glory. Potter didn't appear to have the thirst for the knowledge and ability to influence others that Albus—Merlin grant him peace—had struggled to control. While not as obviously harmful as the Dark Lords drive for dominion and supremacy, Albus had by necessity needed to be cautious of becoming the very thing he fought against, and had only sometimes succeeded. With as much innate magical power, talent, and charisma as Albus had possessed, the combination of being granted a great deal of authority in their world and his masterful ability to manipulate had occasionally ended in despair. Albus, he knew, had deeply regretted many of his manipulations and machinations, but Severus had still never seen the man look as alive or joyous as when Albus saw a long-planned scheme come to fruition.

As a powerful wizard himself, Severus had often felt similar temptations to exert his will upon those who were weaker, and this had often even manifested itself in petty ways—such as his ill treatment of Potter. He had however never used his power or position of authority to cause what he considered true harm, and had thus never felt much guilt over his occasional lapses in controlling his own bitterness.

Having been a fairly-powerful wizard caught between two devastatingly strong ones for over two decades, he felt confident in assessing both men, as well as Harry Potter; weighing their characters and sifting them through the filament to find what he was looking for. Unfortunately, the knowledge he had of Harry Potter was sorely lacking. When they had not been completely at odds, they had been working to bring down the Dark Lord.

Most of what he knew of Potter was war-related. The young man was clever on his feet, utterly rubbish at long term planning or strategy, incredibly lucky, far too daring, easily manipulated on behalf of those he loved, fiercely loyal, surprisingly cunning in a quicksilver manner, easy to anger, and quick to forgive. He had apparently obliviated Death Eaters to give them a 'clean slate', for heaven's sake! Surely he did not need to worry about Potter becoming the next Dark Lord or Dumbledore.

Even still, Snape could not let things go. Even if he did not need to worry over Potter using his powers for ill, he still had his own skin to think of, and the Death Eater summoning conundrum to worry over. What he had told Minerva was true; if Potter was truly as powerful as she had said, he would have summoned Snape when he summoned the other Death Eaters. To Severus' knowledge, there was no way for the younger man to summon a selection of Death Eaters. Voldemort may have been able to summon people in particular as he pleased, but Potter was working off of a faint power-signature—he wasn't the creator of the curse and he didn't have the knowledge Voldemort had about how it worked.

On top of all of this lay the seething emotions he had thought had been dealt with in the last few years of grace. Shame, guilt, bitterness, rage, and sorrow tugged his mind down different paths, reliving memories he much preferred to avoid. Being a good Occlumancer had always meant he kept much better stock of his emotions than most, and he normally had forced himself to deal with his feelings with brutal rationality and dismissive release. A stray feeling or thought at the wrong time could be his doom, so he had always been a meticulous caretaker of his minds garden.

What he had not and never could have taught Potter about Occlumency was that feelings, unfortunately, had to be felt before they could be dealt with. Since the end of the war, Severus Snape had let his garden go to seed, burying memories he felt no desire to examine, glossing over deep internal paradoxes he had no energy to contemplate. If he was ever going to be able to think clearly enough to begin to answer all of his questions and fears over the news about Harry Potter, he would need to get his mind and his emotions back under control.

Sighing, he stood to head in. He was in for a long and difficult several weeks, but unlike the year directly after the war, he now felt capable of dealing with what he had buried and left behind. Time and distance had done their work, and he was ready to face the man in the mirror, as it were—or so he hoped.

It was now long after the sun had set, and his hands were red and chapped, but Severus Snape was determined to solve—and even a little excited by—the new puzzle that had presented itself.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Harry

* * *

Harry flooed directly to Hermione and Ron's home, a rush of warmth filling his chest as he spotted his two best friends sitting close to one another on the couch.

"Hey, you two," he said softly once he'd caught himself and was dusting off his robes.

"Harry!" Hermione enthused, rising to give him a crushing hug.

"Glad you could make it, mate," Ron said, patting Harry's back and grinning fit to split his face.

"I've missed you both," he said with a grin of his own, looking between his two friends. In the six years that had passed since the war, they had grown into their full physical and magical strength, and the power signatures he could now see as easily as breathing were beautiful to behold. Hermione and Ron's power intermingled; he thought they could probably do tandem magic, if they chose, and the shifting colors that twined around them both were lovely to watch, almost mesmerizing.

"Well, if you'd stop gallivanting around the world, perhaps we'd see each other more!" Hermione chided, moving into the large kitchen with the two men trailing behind, exchanging a grin with one another.

"Actually, I think you'll be pleased to hear that I'll be moving back to wizarding Britain," Harry mentioned casually, smirking at Ron to share the joke of Hermione's surprise, only to see that Ron was just as pleasantly surprised as Hermione. After another enthusiastic hug and a toast with the firewhiskey Ron pulled from a cabinet, they settled into comfortable chairs around the kitchen table to catch up.

Harry had been traveling off and on in the four years since what he now called the Death Eater Debacle. While he didn't regret summoning the remaining followers of Voldemort, or obliviating their memories in order to give them a semblance of a fresh start, the hype it had caused was what he had run from when he left four years ago. He had spent time on nearly every continent, seeking out and learning from different teachers of magic until he finally felt he had his terrifyingly huge powers under control.

Whenever he had felt overwhelmed with his studies or by the now-inevitable sense of worship and adoration from the wizarding public, he had disappeared into the muggle world and spent some time forgetting how much power he held. In total, he had mainly spent the past four years alternately running from power and responsibility, and embracing it.

"Still can't decide what to do with your life, then?" Hermione asked sympathetically after he had finished telling an amusing story about his attempts at learning to paint.

"I still say he goes for the seeker position with a professional team—the Hollyhead Harpys have a spot open Harry, and I could talk to Dean for you and see if they'll sneak you into tryouts even though it's a bit late for it. I bet you could wear a glamor—" Ron shut his mouth at Harrys laugh and Hermione's exasperated look, smiling sheepishly between them. Every time Harry had visited in the past four years, Ron had suggested he play professional Quidditch, and as he never seemed to take Harry's denials personally, it had become a running joke on the red head, who was ever-hopeful of seeing his friend fly for a team again.

"I appreciate it Ron, but…I just want to do something without having to pretend I'm anyone other than I am, while avoiding all the fame and worship that people seem determined to throw at me. I know we've been over this many times, but I can't see how I could play Quidditch without either disguising my identity or turning into a puppet for my fans to play with." Harry said gently. He had mostly moved past the bitterness that would have in the past been an undertone to his words, but a shred of wistfulness still remained, and Hermione had to turn her head away so that the men couldn't see her suddenly teary eyes.

"I know," Ron sighed dejectedly, before perking up again, "but, you can at least join our amateur league! It's all a bunch of other Aurors and people from school, so most of them won't get all blubbering on you, and that way we can even play each other again! I know our rivals need a seeker," his hopeful expression turned to one of pure joy as Harrys face lit with guarded enthusiasm.

"I'd bloody love to clobber you in Quidditch again Ron, you're on! We'll give it a go and see how it plays out, but that sounds like a solution I can live with," Harry said excitedly. The other two were pleasantly surprised, as Harry had in the past avoided _anyone_ who knew his name from Wizarding Britain, whether or not they were sycophantic about it or not. Clearly, he had learned to live with both his own power and how those around him reacted to it, to some extent.

"Brilliant!" Ron's face looked like Christmas had come early, and Harry and Hermione couldn't help laughing at his absolutely joyous look. "I'll call Seamus now, and let him know!" he was already up and moving towards the sitting room before the other two had gotten control of their laughter. When his voice became a muffled rise and fall of excited chatter in the other room, Hermione put her hand over Harrys and caught his eye, smiling.

"I'm so glad you're home," she said quietly, and he returned her smile, turning his palm upwards to catch her hand in his own.

"Me too, 'mione." After a length of time lost in their own thoughts, Harry broke the silence again, "one of my friends from Germany moved here last year and started a wizarding band. They're pretty good—and they need a bass player. I said I'd do it," he informed her, pleased with how happy she clearly was for him.

"Harry that's fantastic!" a sly glint crept into her eyes as she looked at him, "is this the 'friend' you told me so much about in your letters?"

Harry grinned unrepentantly at her, and winked before taking another sip of his firewhiskey. "We aren't lovers anymore, but yes he's the one I was telling you about. We managed to keep in touch, and I managed to get over the breakup—now he needs a bass player and since he spent so long teaching me to play, I figured, why not?"

"Do you think you'll…pick things back up where you left them?" She asked delicately, searching his face for any of the pain that had seemed to soak the letters in which this other man had been mentioned, and not seeing it.

"Nah, he was right. It was too weird, as lovers, because our power levels were so disproportionate. It really hurt at the time, but putting myself in his shoes I'd hate to feel so powerless in a relationship. Being a squib and being with someone with my power would be…overwhelming," He squeezed Hermione's hand in reassurance, and she believed him, but she was still overwhelmingly sorry for him. His lot in life might seem ideal and even worthy of incredible envy from the outside, but those closest to him knew how alone and adrift he really was. She could sympathize with the German—had his name been Mark?—but she couldn't quite forgive the other man for seeing Harry's power before his personality, even if Harry could.

Ron returned and Hermione withdrew her hand, smiling up at her beaming husband.

"Shall we order out, then? I don't have much of a mind to cook with Harry here," she suggested, to which both men enthusiastically agreed. A half hour later found them buried in Chinese takeaway cartons, having finished off the bottle of firewhiskey and waxing nostalgic.

"Snape? He's back in town as well?" Harry asked curiously. Hermione nodded as Ron grimaced, not understanding why they had even brought the man up.

"I saw him at Gringotts, though I haven't seen him since. Minerva has said he's back in Britain but being fantastically private about it—apparently he runs most of his errands in public with a glamor or polyjuice potion, these days. Can't say I blame him really," she was looking at Harry speculatively, making him nervous, "next to you, he's the most infamous person in the wizarding world,"

"But he wrote you a letter?" Harry prompted, ignoring the last. She sighed, looking into her empty glass as though looking for the answers to the universe.

"Yes, he's doing research and wants my assistance, as—and I quote—'one of the only mildly competent researchers that Hogwarts has produced in the twenty years he worked there'." The other two guffawed at the quote and she smiled at them indulgently. "I think it was a sort of compliment, coming from him. Come on, let's move to the sitting room and get more comfortable," standing, she cleared the takeaway with a swish of her wand. In the same moment, the cupboard opened and another bottle of firewhiskey floated out at Harry's unspoken command. It hovered in the air until the three of them had passed into the sitting room and then followed them out, bobbing along behind.

Taking the bottle from the air as he sat, Ron thanked Harry and poured for them all.

"What's the project he's working on, then?" Harry continued, and Ron groaned. Hermione shot her husband a look and faced Harry, pushing her hair back and ignoring the complaint.

"I'm not entirely certain, yet. He needs someone who's better at Arithmancy than he is, though of course he didn't say it in such terms. From what I could tell, he's trying to find a way to cure magical maladies such as Lycanthopy. He seems to think it originates from a botched attempt at magic, as opposed to a natural cause."

"That's actually…fascinating." Harry mused, "Keep me updated? I might have some insight," he asked, and she nodded.

"Can we _please_ stop talking about Snape now?" Ron asked plaintively, "Harry was about to tell us more about this Wizarding band, before," Hermione looked with exasperation at her husband, but Harry just laughed.

"Actually Ron, if you want to come out to the Three Broomsticks tomorrow night, you can see for yourself. It'll be our first live show," Harry suggested with measured casualness.

"Are you going to go glamored?" Ron asked curiously, since the Three Broomsticks was bound to have people who would recognize him.

"Of course. Music is the one thing I don't mind hiding to perform at, it's too much fun," Harry grinned. Wanting to cut off Ron's indignant protest about Quidditch being just as fun, he hastily continued, "plus, I learned a new power-dampening trick I want to try out. Hopefully, no one will even be able to feel my signature."

The other two looked skeptical, as well they might. Ever since his powers had nearly doubled when he came into what others insisted on calling his Inheritance, everyone had been able to feel his presence like a palpable thing. Being the only Wizard alive with such a strong signature, it made glamors and polyjuice all but worthless to him as disguises. One of the things he had sought out from his magical lessons was how to blend in, become unassuming, and if possible, disguise his signature. He was eager to try it out the following night, and he could tell his friends were hoping it would work, for his sake.

"We'll be there, Harry," Hermione said with a smile. Ron was nodding in agreement.

"Yeah mate, I can't wait to see you play. I've gotta hear for myself how terrible it is, after all of that bragging you've been doing," Ron winced as Harry punched him playfully, but there was an undercurrent of warmth in the words that the redhead couldn't hide.

All told, it was a good first night back in Wizarding Britain, Harry decided. And tomorrow…tomorrow would sort itself out.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Raising Power

* * *

Wizarding instruments were much, much more complex than muggle ones. Harry had been practicing with renewed dedication for six months after he'd gotten the initial invitation from Mark, but even so he felt unaccountably nervous as he followed the rest of the band to the stage at the Three Broomsticks. In the crowd near the front he could see Hermione and Ron, and he felt a burst of satisfaction as their eyes initially passed over him, not recognizing either his face or his magical presence.

 _At least that worked,_ he thought smugly to himself. Knowing that he could now pass unnoticed in the magical world relieved him more than he could possibly express; it felt like true freedom, like a daring broom ride on a cloudless day in an empty landscape. A burst of confidence followed his discovery, and he winked at Hermione and Ron, who otherwise wouldn't know who he was, as they weren't familiar with any of the other band members and had never seen this glamor.

The band Mark had gathered together two years ago when the other man had moved to Britain was an odd mix. Most wizarding musicians held themselves aloof from muggle music of the day, preferring odd blends of ancient Celtic sounds with more modern jazz infrequently thrown in. Mark's band was different. Raised as a squib in wizarding household, the muggle world had often been Marks sanctuary when things in his life had felt overwhelming. He had thrown himself into music at a young age the way a starving man would throw himself into a pit at the promise of food; desperately and with complete abandon.

The other man had spent years studying both muggle and magical instruments and styles, and could play any string instrument expertly. His sound had been influenced by the Norse magical community, which still had the best drum-styles Harry had ever heard; muggle Germany metal music, which Harry could see his younger self loving but couldn't properly get behind now; and flamenco music—which, if being honest, Harry was hard pressed to explain. The odd combination of style worked for Mark, though, and the band he'd assembled clearly jived.

As the band started warming up, Harry looked around at the other members and grinned, feeling the rise in excitement and determination that he always felt when performing a hard-won skill in front of a crowd. The lights dimmed as the band grew ready to start the first set, and he could see Ron and Hermione had been joined by several other Weasleys and a few others he didn't recognize.

Mark started them off slowly, plucking notes on his guitar that sent shivers through the crowd with their haunting sound. It was a wizarding guitar, and only Marks ancestry allowed him to access the single drop of power needed to make it work. As it did, impossible notes layered upon one another in a way a muggle guitar never could; it would have taken several to make the sounds Mark was expertly drawing out from this one. The haunting and lonely plucking brought to mind frozen earth on a desert night, and a vault of stars above.

The drums came in then, soft and slow at first. The drummer was an oddity; a muggle woman named Sara, playing a muggle instrument. No one would have guessed; at the first kick of the bass drum the power in the room seemed to rise another level and the last bit of muffled conversation trailed off. Their audience was truly giving them their full attention. Sarah was an expert, the cymbals came in like a soft, shaking rain, underlined by the steady thrum of the kick drum. It wove expertly into Marks increased plucking, creating a chilly, almost gothic mood.

Harry was so wrapped up in what the other two were making between them that he nearly missed his queue to count-in, but he got it and several seconds later he was joining their play, adding color and fire to the landscape; increasing the pace and throwing an almost industrial sound in. A few seconds later, Mark switched to strumming and the pace kicked up another notch, going from a dreamy haze to an almost manic feeling as they progressed, reaching towards the climax.

The power levels in the room were glorious. _This_ is why Harry had agreed to play in the band, besides the obvious anyway. The way witches and wizards reacted to music was extraordinary. Unconsciously, their power signatures blended together, became a shared experience that wasn't easy to replicate. Combined, those powers increased, showing rising tension and a build of power that Harry hadn't seen done in tandem outside of a musical scene. The audience was smiling now, talking to one another excitedly and cheering, calling out encouragement. Their visible signatures—currently combined—showed their enthusiasm, rising with the music towards a dizzying peak.

Harry could feel his own magic and the magic of their singer, Nate, reach out and engage with that power, both feeding it and drawing it inwards. When Nate joined in with his siren-song voice, Harry felt the exact moment the crowd was hooked. Now, they would play through their set with a rapt and attentive audience; everyone had been won over to the music they hadn't known they wanted to hear, and when the night was over they'd wait eagerly for me.

Harry caught his friend's eyes and smiled hugely, enjoying himself more than he had in a long time. Ron looked like he was cheering himself hoarse, and Hermione wasn't far behind. He had to look away from them and concentrate, otherwise he was going to lose his place in the mad medley.

Feeling a rush of exhilaration, he threw himself back into the music and lost himself utterly, reveling in the anonymity as much as in the power they were raising. For the first time in a long while, he found himself utterly content.

* * *

Once again, Minerva had barged her way into his home. This time, however, he didn't really mind. In the four years since the news of Potter's disquieting power, he'd managed to work through and resolve a number of issues relating to his past. He had come back to Wizarding Britain because the mystery of Harry Potter had finally called him home, but he had retuned as a mellower version of his former self.

That was not to say he didn't bear his share of scars; he merely bore them better. That was why, this time, he graced Minerva with a rare smile and invited her to sit, summoning tea as she did so. Once they had caught up with one another and there was a comfortable lull in conversation, Minvera breached the silence with a cautious look on her face.

"Severus, I was hoping you'd accompany me this weekend on a night out," she tentatively suggested, utterly shocked when he inclined his head without even a token protest.

"I'd be happy to, Minerva, as long as you do not oppose my wearing a glamor. Was it my services as what they call a wing man you were hoping to engage?" a wicked gleam entered his eye as Minerva spluttered into her tea.

"Severus! That is highly inappropriate," she declared, smoothing her skirt and purposefully not meeting his eye.

"Nothing better than a bent man to help a cat on the prowl, I imagine," he said blithely, sipping his tea to hide his smirk as she started and glared at him. Her face melted into a genuine smile after a few moments, looking at him with fond asperity.

"Clearly, all that travel was good for you Severus." She observed, and he inclined his head once more in agreement. "I must however insist that you keep an eye out only for other…cats…if you intend to be of any help whatsoever." It was her turn to smirk at him as he took in her meaning with slightly widened eyes.

"It seems we understand each other very well," Severus said at last, and sharing a conspiratorial smile with Minerva, asked, "where did you have in mind?"

* * *

The bar Minvera had chosen was an excellent venue to Snapes practiced eye. It was well spaced, with higher ceilings and an open floor plan. Dark, polished wood shined under the candlelight, and the band setting up at the far end would not be deafening to them as the place was quite large. Looking around, he spotted Miss Granger—or rather, he supposed with a moue of distaste—Mrs. Weasley. Her husband was there, coming back to join her from the bar with drinks, but it seemed they hadn't brought along the entire Weasley family.

It was no matter to him, he reminded himself, for he did not appear like himself tonight and thus could ignore them with absolute impunity. Unless of course they decided to come speak with Minerva, and even then he did not have to pretend to care about them one jot more than any other stranger would. Although he had requested the assistance of Miss Weasley on his Lycanthropy project, he had no great tolerance for her husband or for the polite chit-chat that old war acquaintances must give one another, and he felt a liberating sense of carelessness as he reminded himself it was not his world anymore.

Minerva and he got their drinks and chose a table along the back wall, talking quietly and even laughing as the band warmed up. When he had inquired about the band, Minerva had an odd look in her eye as she responded.

"Oh, they're a fairly new group. They don't play anything like other wizarding musicians, I find them quite lovely even though they are a bit too…hard rock, I suppose, for me. Something about their music is…entrancing," Severus was intrigued by this description. Minerva had never approved of rock music when he had been in school, and it seemed little had changed. Whenever he caught her listening to the wireless or a record, it was always smoky jazz, or soulful blues that he heard, despite her Scottish ancestry. For her to enjoy a group labeled as 'hard rock', it must be something unique indeed.

Once the band began to play, Severus was deeply surprised to see the entire bar go quiet as the power in the room began to build. This wasn't like any other wizarding band he had heard, of that Minerva had been absolutely right. The energy levels in the room rose and fell with the pace of the music, and Severus was sure he could almost _see_ it. The music moved through him in waves, captivating him in a way he had never experienced; he might have lost hours or days just listening to the group play.

When the set ended and the players had made their bow, Severus let out a deep breath.

"That was..." he trailed off, shaking his head slightly as though coming back to himself.

"Incredible. Even better than I remember," Minerva finished for him, and he nodded in mute agreement. He could see the musicians putting away their instruments and drawing a ward around their things, then all four of them walked over to join the table that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were sitting at. It was only then that Severus realized the two Weasleys had been sitting at an empty table in the midst of a packed and crowded tavern, so clearly the meeting had been arranged beforehand, those seats being reserved for the musicians.

The young man that Severus recognized as the bass player was grabbed in an undignified hug by Mrs. Weasley, but he laughingly returned it before sitting down. The whole table was angled such that Severus could see all of their faces with great clarity, his eyes lingering on the lithe form of the bassist as he took them all in.

"Someone catch your eye, Severus?" Minerva teased, "I always wondered what your type was."

"My dear woman, I am not _nearly_ deep enough in my cups to be confiding in you on such a level," he said airily, finishing the last of his ale.

"Do not challenge a Scot to a drinking contest, Severus, for you _will_ lose," Minerva warned him with a wicked look in her eye as she flagged down a server. Severus harrumphed; he had not been _challenging_ her, but to say as much now would be petulant and undignified in the extreme. He suspected she knew he wouldn't be able to bring himself to protest, either—she'd tied him into this contest as surely and easily as Dumbledore had tied him into any number of things, so long ago.

"Here, cheers—to old friends and good scotch," Minerva clinked the glass of her new drink against his and tossed it back. Following suite, he shrugged off the constant paranoia that has been his companion for some thirty years; after all this time, he lectured himself internally, he could finally relax.

Severus had been deep in his cups several cups ago, but the restorative potion he took during a visit to the loo had sobered him up enough to easily navigate back to the table where Minerva sat. The Weasleys had already paid their respects to the Headmistress, giving nothing more than polite greetings to her friend 'Silas', and now the woman was eyeing him suspiciously as he reclaimed his seat.

"You took a potion, didn' you," she accused, only slurring slightly. He was rather impressed as she had downed far more alcohol than he, and yet she still seemed to be able to see straight. He would have wondered if she had her own restorative potion but for the slurred speech, which belied her lack of any such thing.

"Never compete with Slytherins, Minerva," he said smugly, his eyes once again catching those of the bass player. The young man was shorter than he by nearly a head, but the dark hair and blue eyes were a strikingly beautiful contrast, and from what expanse of skin was currently on display, there was nothing lacking there, either. Severus narrowed his eyes, watching as the entire table darted looks towards him, clearly talking about either himself or Minerva and laughing. He looked over at the Headmistress of Hogwarts for her opinion, but that odd look was back and she was smirking in a decidedly Slytherin type of way.

Returning his attention to the riveting young man, he noticed that Granger seemed to be asking the bassist a question. The man in question shrugged self-deprecatingly and smiled at her, tossing his head as if to say, _I suppose it couldn't hurt_. To Severus' surprise and mild alarm, the man was soon moving towards their table—towards _him_.

"Hey," the aformentioned bassist was now standing beside an empty chair at their table. Oddly, he appeared both casual and uncertain. "Would you mind if I sat with you?" The man didn't wait for an answer before taking a seat and saying easily, "my friends over there are being bloody pushy with me, so I thought I'd hide out over here. My name's Henry—what's yours?"

"This is Silas," Minerva cut in before he could respond, perhaps thinking he would react with his signature sarcasm, "and I'm Minerva,"

"Pleased to meet you both," Henry grinned, but his eyes lingered on 'Silas' and Severus couldn't seem to pull his eyes away. Something about the other man was pulling at his senses in a familiar way, and he was too tossed to figure out what it was. That was enough to send a familiar spike of panic through him; in the old days, something as innocuous as a half-familiar, half-remembered feeling could be deadly if he didn't recall it quickly.

"So how did you like the show?" Henry asked slyly, as though knowing the answer already. He would have to, of course, as the entire place had been cheering wildly between numbers and giving rapt, silent attention as the music played.

"I found it most intriguing," Severus responded honestly, wondering how to down a sober-up potion without Henry noticing so he could examine that sense of familiarity more thoroughly. The restorative potion had merely pushed him back from the other side of 'too sloshed to walk', and now he had a distinct desire to be completely sober and present.

"Do you like the current music scene?" Henry asked, and Severus realized his responses were forcing the conversation to be awkwardly one-sided, giving an impression of disinterest he did not at all intend to give. While he hadn't quiet been promiscuous since the end of the war, he'd certainly filled the lonely days with pleasant company whenever the mood had struck him. It was unfortunate that his true appearance and snarky demeanor were so off-putting, and thus he could not maintain anything other than short-lived flings, but now was not the time to be lamenting the fact, or perusing a nigglingly familiar memory he was sure would come back to him in time.

"I'm rather unfamiliar with it, to be honest, as I've just returned from several years of travel. Tonight being my first reintroduction to wizarding society, I have to say I am thoroughly pleased with the experience," Severus finally responded, several heartbeats late. Luckily, Henry seemed to be able to tell that he was now fully present and not uninterested in distraction, and they launched into a discussion of his travels.

Severus learned that Henry had also been traveling, and while listening to the other man speak the elusive memory finally returned to him. He was lucky that Henry—or should he say, Harry?—needed very little from him by way of response to continue his description of his trials, for Severus was struck absolutely dumb by the revelation that the pleasant conversationalist and incredibly attractive bassist he'd been trying to pick up was none other than Harry Potter.

"What is it? You look a bit distracted, and I know you must not have been listening because that story makes _everyone_ laugh," Potter had the gall to ask. Overwhelmed and determined not to show it, Snape deliberately shook himself.

"Forgive me, it has been a long day and I have drank much more than I am accustomed to doing, tonight," he said. Glancing at Minerva, he saw the other woman was asleep with her head pillowed on her arm, and took the easy out. "I should be getting my friend home, but I would like to continue this at a later date, perhaps when I'm more able to give you my full attention," he said, thinking quickly. "When and where is your next performance? If it's not too presumptuous of me, perhaps we can meet and speak then," Severus was surprised to see Harry's face light up with a warm smile, and even more surprised at the strange lurch his pulse gave at the sight.

"That's brilliant yeah, I should be getting back to my friends myself," at that they both glanced across the room to see the Weasleys falling over in their seats from exhaustion, huge yawns not-quite-hidden behind polite hands. With a start, they both seemed to realize it was nearly closing time. "We'll be performing in Edinburgh next, at the Lumos Lyre—do you know it?"

It was only one of the biggest and most expensive tavern/inn combination in wizarding Edinburgh.

"I believe I am acquainted with it," Severus said dryly.

"Great! It's next Saturday, and the music starts at nine," 'Henry' said enthusiastically, getting up. "I'll see you then," he said in parting, waving and retreating. Snape stared after him a moment, conflicting thoughts pouring through his mind. Sighing, he grabbed Minerva and apparated them both back to Prince Manor.

"Drink this," he ordered Minerva, handing her a combined pepper-up/sober-up potion. He crossed his arms and stood in front of her, frowning. She grumbled, but did so, and when she was looking livelier he handed her a glass of water.

"Why is Harry Potter masquerading as a bassist in a wizarding band?" He demanded without preamble once she had drank half the glass.

"Noticed that, did you?" She asked wryly. Despite the pepper-up, she yawned hugely.

"I almost didn't," he snapped, angry at her deception, "If it hadn't been for all the years I spent in that boys head, I would never have felt his magical signature, it was incredibly faint and I've never been very well practiced in reading them. Why in the blazes didn't you warn me?"

"Harry has asked us all not to. In fact, I only learned of it from him after nearly interrogating him the first time I saw him play. I suppose having your old Head of House questioning your origins is bound to make you feel a tad squeamish, and Harry never was very good at deceiving those he cares for."

"And you thought it was fine to watch Harry Potter try to pick me up? That is disgusting! He's—he's a _child_!" Severus began pacing, unable to keep himself from motion as the maelstrom within him intensified. Although he had returned to Britain in part to learn how powerful Potter really was, as well as discover how the younger man had been able to avoid summoning him—if that was indeed the case—he was still deeply unnerved to have found himself in so close proximity with Potter without the slightest knowledge. And to think he'd been considering shagging him! It was simply repulsive.

"You didn't seem to mind it until you figured out who he was, Severus, so clearly you have no objection to his age or figure." Minerva said slyly. He turned on her with a flash of true rage.

"You should have told me," he said, low and dangerous, "I do not appreciate your deception, and it is clear to me now that you've been trying to get me to speak to Potter for the better part of four years. Well—I _will_ be seeing him again and he is _not_ to know who I am. If you break that trust with me, Minerva, our long friendship will truly be through." Seeing that she was taking him seriously, he ushered her to the fire. "As it is, it will be quite some time before I find myself free. I've discovered a sudden distaste for…cats. Good night, Minerva."

With that, he shoved her through the fire to her own sitting room, and once the green fire had gone, he removed her from the approved list on both the floo and the wards. Still fuming, he went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy, taking it onto the balcony that overlooked the small lake.

After staring so long at the moon that he was certain the after-image was forever branded upon his eyes, he heaved a deep sigh.

Harry Potter. It was honestly a better opportunity than he had thought to have, to ferret out the mystery that had brought him back. While he still harbored resentment against the younger man's father and friends, he could no longer bring up to usual rancor when he considered Potter. The man had been a child in his care; all the harm he had caused Severus had been the unwitting motions of a young boy, and the absurdity of needing that boy to vanquish the Dark Lord quite outweighed the rest.

Severus still felt almost guilty for the way the adults in Potters life had used him; in part he knew that was the root of his usual ire. Potter had been so _trusting_ , so starved for affection and so lonely. If it had been the Dark Lord that had taken him in as opposed to Albus, Severus had no doubt that Potter would have just as easily become Voldemort's weapon instead. That sheer naivety and desperation for affection had struck too close to home for Severus, especially during a time when he was paying the piper twice for his own youthful mistakes, which had risen out of something quite similar.

If he was being particularly honest with himself—which only happened when the brandy was flowing this freely—he had punished Potter for that very inclination to trust those who gave him the affection he craved, as though by doing so he could punish his younger self for the same.

It was time, and past, to lay that anger to rest. His and Potters situations had been different enough; those who had given Potter affection had been genuine, whereas Severus had been duped. Admitting that, and admitting that affection or care was not always followed by betrayal, was something he appeared to need to learn again and again.

Disgusted with himself, he turned his thoughts deliberately to their next meeting, considering how tonights had gone for comparison. Potters power signature had been subdued, which is why it had taken him so long to suss him. Normally, witches and wizards couldn't control the signatures their power made; for those powerful enough to read or see them, they became transparent and gave one all manner of useful insight. Potter had somehow managed to dampen his, almost to the point of hiding it completely. His glamor had been expertly done. It had for the most part conformed to his usual features, changing only a few things; masking the scar, elongating the face, changing the color of his eyes. Knowing now that he had been looking at Harry Potter, it was a wonder he hadn't noticed the resemblance immediately.

What was Potter doing, back in Wizarding Britain and playing in a band, of all things? Granted, he had clearly picked up more than just magical skills on his travels, and Severus was glad he was to have another chance to learn more for it was frankly intriguing to see what someone so powerful would choose to do when having already shunned world dominion.

The most disquieting thing he needed to decide upon was how far to take this deceit. He didn't feel squeamish about continuing to deceive Potter to get his answers—if he did, he would hardly have made a good spy. He did however feel strange when considering the obvious sexual tension that had risen between him. Potter had clearly been interested in him, and when he was being honest with himself he had felt the same attraction. There was something a bit too Lucius Malfoy about the idea of fucking Potter senseless while masquerading as someone else, even if Potter was doing the same. His mouth twisted in distaste at the thought.

 _Perhaps this is irrelevant,_ he thought to himself wryly. _You can't even think of the man by his first name._

Deciding it was more than past time for bed, he left his things where they were and retired, determine to come up with a plan to get Potter to spill his secrets without having to bugger the man.


End file.
